


Only a fool doesn't listen to his Doctor

by deathtosanepeople



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Accidental Cuddling, Angst, Bittersweet, I mean slight angst but still, M/M, Softly softly, and then purposeful cuddling, dayum ari back at it again with the
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-09 01:42:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8870851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathtosanepeople/pseuds/deathtosanepeople
Summary: This very short one shot is based on this lovely prompt by marcelock on tumblr:omg but sherlock going into his mind palace for a loooong time to think so john curls himself around sherlock n rests his head on sherlocks chest and sort of falls asleep cuddling him then sherlock JOLTS AWAKE and johns like WHATS GOING ON and sherlocks like WHAT ?! and theyre both shouting and confused for a moment and then theyre like “…..whats up howd u sleep lov u”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn’t get this idea out of my head so I asked if I could give it a shot, and marcel so kindly gave me permission. (It doesn’t do the idea justice but I tried so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)
> 
> The idea is that this is set sometime after the jealousy ridden scenes we’ve gotten from those two clips recently, and the assumption that it’s affecting both John and Sherlock negatively, whether those scenes be dreams or reality.
> 
> I just… I need them to be happy. And I’m not saying that William Sherlock Scott Holmes is essential to John Hamish Watson’s happiness, and vice versa, but… that’s EXACTLY what I’m saying.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Sherlock,” John hisses, swaying forward and nearly crumpling into the boxes stacked in the back of the moving semi. “Sherlock, this is a terrible idea. If they catch us getting out of here—“

“If,” Sherlock interrupts, “being the operative word, John. They will not find us.”

“Yeah?” John argues, carefully making his way over to where Sherlock has positioned himself, crosslegged, on the metal floor. “And how do you know that?”

“Because we will be long gone before they open these doors.” As John settles in front of him, he draws his fingers to his temples and inhales. “Now, if you’ll be quiet a moment, I need to calculate where exactly we will need to jump out.”

“Jump—“ John’s head tips back in disbelief. “Of course we’re going to jump. What other option could there possibly be?”

“What other option, indeed, John.” He allows himself a faint smile, but it feels hollow, so he drops it quickly. “I suggest you make yourself comfortable as possible, this will be a rather long ride.”

John grumbles something unpleasant in response, but Sherlock has already slipped into the spaces and places mapped out in his mind. On one level; approximating speed, road composition, listening for sound landmarks. On the other; planning the escape, plotting for the confrontation to come. 

He’s in the middle of composing a particularly witty retort to an obvious question that the culprit will most certainly ask, when he becomes aware of a persistent heat placed over his chest. He had ignored it, not perceiving it as a threat, but now it’s too distracting to properly displace the feeling from his thoughts. 

He cracks one eye open, trying to peer down, seeing, at first, only undefined murky shapes in the dark. 

John has fallen forward into him, his head leaning on Sherlock’s chest. 

His heart thumps erratically, ratcheting from eighty beats to one hundred beats in less than a second.

Sherlock’s hands come up, fluttering like indecisive butterflies, unsure whether to move him or let him rest.

He had observed that John’s eyes were rimmed with dark circles, his teeth stained darker than usual, indicating a more frequent consumption of coffee. His shirts were un-ironed, and he had missed a patch of hair on the side of his face while shaving this morning— Married life must be taking its toll on him.

His hands lower, and he decides to let John sleep.

He attempts returning to his deductions, but finds the task impossible. John’s warmth is heating straight through him, and all of his considerable senses are focused on the twenty-something circumference of John’s crown inclined against him.

Even in sleep there is something of the soldier about John; his arms are crossed up close against his chest, his back tense. There is a transient feeling to this slumber, as if John could spring up at a moment’s notice, fully alert and battle ready. In fact, Sherlock is sure he could. 

His hand is moving before his great brain can catch up, and he blames his next action on the muddling of his mind, caused by this accidental, but extremely intimate proximity. 

He runs long fingers down the flat plane of John’s back, surprised and slightly alarmed as a moan, of what can only be described as relief, trembles from John’s lips, and his body arches into the contact, relaxing minutely.

“John,” Sherlock breathes, hoping he will wake, hoping he will never have to move from this spot again. He draws his fingers down John’s back once more.

“Mhm,” John hums, turning his head to bury in closer.

And Sherlock marvels at the paradox that is John Watson. Soldier and Doctor. Killer and Healer. Spine of steel and eyes as cool as cardice, biting half-moon smiles and clever quips. Round cheeks and gentle hands, kind eyes and soft gazes, showering compliments.

To be so pliant and touchable now, yet have been so cold and distant the hours previous…

Sherlock thinks he could live for a millennia and never catalogue all the contradictions contained in this wiry little man. 

The pleasant moment breaks as they roll over a nasty bump, sending John jolting upright, banging into Sherlock’s chin. 

“Gah!” Sherlock cries, reeling back, feeling hot, burning shame for no reason.

Confusion blotches John’s face with spots of red, his hair is oh-so-achingly ruffled on his head, and he blinks rapidly, adjusting his vision. He registers Sherlock’s pained cry and scrambles forward, reaching for Sherlock’s face. “Oh shit, did I do that? Sorry, sorry, I—“ 

“It’s quite alright,” Sherlock breaks in, clumsily pushing away the seeking hand, “I assure you I’m fine.”

John hinges back on his heels, squinting to see in the low light.

He looks better, Sherlock thinks. John needed that rest. No reason to feel guilty. He does not need to feel guilty.

He usually doesn’t mind the silence, especially not with John. John is a calming, centering presence, grounding in Sherlock’s fits of madness. But now he’s looking Sherlock over with something akin to suspicion and Sherlock doesn’t want this guilt, shouldn’t be feeling it at all, thick in the air like tobacco smoke. 

“How did you sleep?”

Even as the words pass from his lips he hates them. Hates how soft they sound, so concerned, gentle, cloying with sentiment. 

“Fine.” It’s short. John is annoyed. “I feel better, thanks.”

He sinks back into a seated position, not making eye contact with Sherlock, his tongue passing ponderously over his lower lip.

Sherlock watches him, rubbing at his bruised chin. The silence continues for many moments, nothing but the creak of metal and the shush of sliding boxes to interrupt their imposed quietude. 

The rocking of the moving vehicle slowly lulls John back into his sleepy state, and he has to catch himself from pitching back into slumber again.

After the third time or so of this dropping off and then jerking himself awake, Sherlock sighs, already regretting what he’s about to say.

“You can rest your head on my shoulder if you need to, John. I would assume that would be more comfortable than the whiplash you’re currently giving yourself.”

Something hard and strange crystalizes in John’s gaze. His jaw locks, stress traveling from his temples to the rest of his face.

Sherlock keeps his visage intentionally blank, resisting the urge to look away from John’s scrutiny.

They hold there, only their occasional need to blink distinguishing them from any surrounding stationary thing.

Sherlock sees the instant John makes up his mind; in the slump of his shoulders, in the smoothing of his forehead.

“Alright,” John says, resignedly. And he sounds so exhausted it makes Sherlock yearn. 

He scoots in next to Sherlock, at first avoiding any contact except for the impersonal connection between Sherlock’s shoulder and his head. 

But as the minutes go by, John’s body beings to unbend from his stiff position. His arm lines up with Sherlock’s, his leg tilting in, causing their knees to touch. Even his rounded nose dips closer, pressing near Sherlock’s collar bone. This is as relaxed as Sherlock has ever seen him, even on their stag night John had been stiff as board, a heated, solid rail lined against his back on the stairs.

As John unspools into him, it feels like giving in. 

To what, Sherlock doesn’t fully understand, but he knows it terrifies him. 

He tries to calm his thundering heart, sure John will be able to hear the abnormal rhythms and comment on them. 

He does, but not in the way Sherlock expects. 

John shifts away slightly, and Sherlock strangles the panic rising in his throat, preparing for the question, the accusation, the—

John is only searching for his hand.

Blunt, calloused fingers slip between his lithe, string hardened ones, clenching loosely around his hand.

“Relax, Sherlock,” John says, his voice ghosting over the hollow of Sherlock’s throat. 

Sherlock does. 

A weight in his chest loosens, a heavy, loathsome thing tied to his heart since that awful night. Since that wonderful but painful, unexpected deduction. Since that delayed stabbing through his heart.

He feels as if he can finally breathe. 

He lays his head over John’s mostly silver crown, freezing as John stiffens, relaxing as John lets out a weak huff, tinged with amused distress.

John's tone is mild, kinder than it has been in weeks. “Do you know when we need to jump?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, his voice lazy and deep, warmed by John’s nearness.

“Then sleep. Wake us when you need to.”

Sherlock smiles into John’s hair, mentally setting an alarm. “Doctor’s orders?”

John hums in assent, already drifting. “You bet.”

Sherlock squeezes his hand, elation flaring in his veins at being able to do so. 

He whispers, unsure if John will even hear, unknowing if he would understand even if he did.

“Only a fool doesn’t listen to his Doctor.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and as always, constructive criticism and advice is welcome, and reviews are very, very appreciated. I always forget to say this, but if you want to come follow me on tumblr, I'm katieamnesiaandrews


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